drowning in ashes
by fairytalelights
Summary: "I don't appreciate being sent halfway across the world to 'recover', even if this place isn't that bad." - Ember's been sent to live with the Bennetts. She's not quite sure what she expected, but it's definitely not the introduction to a world and to people she never knew existed. (yes, this is a Jack/OC fic... not gonna rush into anything though!)
1. burgess

**Hi. First off - I know I have two other ROTG-OC stories that are currently in progress! And many many other stories to update as well. But, I kind of have to work on lots of different projects at once, so I can flit between them, depending on my mood. Yep. **

**So. Right. Another OC ROTG story. Yay! If you're familiar with my other stories, well, you'll find the OCs kind of similar to this one. But, truth be told, I just really wanted to try out a different style of writing - and, you know, it's my personal opinion that Jack really should get a girl. Yep. So here's another OC-ROTG story. **

**So, you know, if you're familiar with my other stories, you might get kind of bored with this. Lots of parts will be very similar. Like I said, I just really wanted to try out a different style of writing. I tried this kind of present tense first-person writing once, for my _The Hobbit _fanfiction, and I kind of gave up on it halfway and made it third-person. So, yeah, I just want to try out present tense first-person again, and keep to it throughout the whole story. If I can. **

**Yeah, okay. I think lots of people would probably be sick of me appearing in the ROTG Archive so often recently. Oh well. **

**This is, really, an introduction for my OC. (And, yes, there are lots of similarities between this and my other two fics and _those _OCs. If you get bored, well - well, you get bored, I guess. I'll live through the heartache.) **

**Hope you enjoy it! **

* * *

><p><em>It's cold. Snow is drifting around me – soft and white, delicate snowflakes falling to the ground, surrounding me, and I raise a hand and I laugh. <em>

_Suddenly there is a wild whoop of laughter, and a brown-haired boy is racing through the snow, carrying a screaming, laughing girl on his back. Bright brown eyes, dark brown hair that fall over their faces. I can see them clearly, and I can feel the snow and the bitter cold, but somehow, I know, they cannot see me._

_It doesn't matter. I watch them with a kind of delight as the boy finally collapses onto the ground, his sister scrambling off him and into the snow, shrieking with a wide grin on her face. _

"_Jack, can we go ice skating?" the young girl asks._

_The boy flops over onto the snow, so he's facing the sky, the sunlight streaming down through the branches and the leaves. "Maybe later, squirt," he says. "The ice is gonna be too thin." _

_The girl makes a face, but then promptly dissolves into giggles as the boy tackles her, tickling her. "Stop it, stop it!" she laughs._

_The boy rolls back over on his back, and he grins at his sister. "Shall we go and play a trick on Will?" he asks her. _

_The girl brightens up considerably. "Okay!" she tells him. _

_I stand, and I watch, and I smile._

* * *

><p>I stare up at the house in front of me. It looks pretty big, and it looks, even from the outside, like one of those really nice, comfortable, lived-in houses that I've only ever really read about in books. My sneakers are covered in snow, and it feels kind of weird, considering this is the first time I've actually seen snow since my trip to Europe, like, years ago.<p>

I have to take a deep breath, and pull my jacket closer around me.

_You'll be fine_, I tell myself, firmly. _Everything will be okay_.

Next to me, there is a slim, brown-haired woman in glasses, who looks at me comfortingly, but I can't bring myself to look back up at her. Mrs Bennett. She and my mum go way back, I know, from when my mum studied in the States years ago. She's smiling at me now, a warm smile, and I resist the urge to snap at her. It's not her fault Mum's dumped this on her. It's not her fault she gets to be stuck with me for the next few months until I've 'recovered', as Mum and Dad put it.

Which is stupid. It's ridiculous. If they think flying me off to the other side of the world is going to help me 'recover', they're dead wrong.

"Jamie and Sophie are at one of their friend's houses," Mrs Bennett tells me, gently, as I scuff my way up the path behind her, and she opens the door. She leads me into a warm living room, comfortable and roomy and just so _home-y_. (Yeah, I know, my vocabulary stinks. Whatever. Words aren't really my strong point.) I have to swallow. "I thought maybe you'd like to unpack, first, and you could meet them later when they're back. They can be quite a handful," she tells me.

"Sure," I say. "Thanks, Mrs Bennett."

She looks at me with something that feels a lot like pity, and I have to resist the urge to snap at her again. You know, when you read books, and the main character's always pissed when people look at her pityingly? I've never understood that. But I do now. I know she means well, but I don't need her pity, and I don't want it, either.

Mrs Bennett brings me up the stairs and onto the landing, and she shows me the guest room that'll be my room for the next couple of months. I nod, and I mumble "Thanks", and she smiles at me again and tells me she'll call me when Jamie and Sophie get back, and quietly she backs out of the room and shuts the door.

I throw my haversack onto the ground, dump the luggage I've been carrying unceremoniously. I want to throw myself onto the bed, and curl up and be _alone_. But habits die hard, and I know I won't bring myself to clamber onto the bed without showering first. So I turn to unpack my stuff.

There isn't that much. Just lots of clothes, clothes that Mum's insisted I pack but I probably will never wear, and my own stuff. There are lots of books, of course, as many as I could squeeze in without hitting the maximum weight for my luggage. And my notebook, and my laptop, and my old orange moose with mismatched socks.

I set my mind to unpacking and setting up my stuff, and the next thing I know there's a knock on the door and the sky outside is dark and I blink myself out of my trance. My family and my friends used to say that I always get into a trance when I'm sorting through stuff and making sure everything's neat.

Mrs Bennett opens the door, and she tells me, "We're having dinner now."

I follow her down the stairs, hesitantly. Mum's told me just a bit about Jamie and Sophie, and Mrs Bennett has too, that they're years younger than me and all that jazz, but I don't know what I'm supposed to say to them. I'm no good with kids. Dad's always said I'm too serious for my age. I've never been the kind who likes to go out and run around in the sun and laugh my head off. I'm more the type who likes to sit with a book and a laptop to Google the stuff I don't know and make people debate with me over hundreds of topics that nobody really cares about.

So, yeah. No good with kids.

I enter the kitchen, cautiously. There's a little blond girl, a toddler, really, with the most beautiful bright green eyes that I've _ever _seen. She's grinning, laughing, her fork stuck into her bowl of spaghetti. She looks like she's maybe three, or two?

Opposite her is a scrawny kid, and when I say scrawny, I mean scrawny. He's got this messy brown hair and bright brown eyes and he's really small for his age (ten, or eleven, if I'm not wrong), and he's grinning at me cautiously, like he doesn't really know what to make of me.

But then again, I guess it has to be kind of terrifying when you see a teenage girl you don't know walk into your kitchen, with bright green hair that glows like that ectoplasm thing in that Danny Phantom show, and funky black-and-white glasses, and multiple earrings, and wearing a shirt that says _JUDGING ME? FEEL FREE TO_ and tattered old jeans and worn-out Converse sneakers.

I have to bite back a grin when I remember Mrs Bennett's look of surprise when she saw me, when she came to fetch me from the airport. Mum's let her know about my hair colour and how I look like and all that, but I guess it still must've come as a surprise.

I wonder what made her agree to let me stay with her, considering I hardly look the part of a nice, goody-two-shoes teenager who knows how to live with kids. I mean, _I _didn't have a choice. Mrs Bennett did. As Mum puts it, I look like a total delinquent.

Whatever. I don't think I look that bad. Green hair's a _great _statement. And there's nothing wrong with multiple earrings. And I like my choice of clothing.

"Jamie, Sophie," Mrs Bennett says, "this is Ember. Her mum's an old friend of mine, so Ember's staying here for the next few months until she sorts things out."

I notice Mrs Bennett doesn't mention who she's referring to when she says '_until **she** sorts things out_'. Suddenly, I feel grateful to her. She doesn't have to put up with me; she had the choice to say no. But she agreed to, anyway.

"Hi, kids," I say, because what do you say to a couple of kids who look at you like you're some kind of alien?

I slip into the seat next to Jamie, who smiles at me nervously. I notice that his eyes keep flickering over to the window just next to him, and sometimes he has to stifle a laugh, like someone's making weird faces at him, or telling him a funny story.

Across the table, Sophie is staring at me very hard.

"Seaweed," she finally proclaims, right as we start eating.

I blink at her. "Huh?"

"Seaweed," she repeats, insistently, and she points at me with her fork. "Seaweed."

Jamie laughs, suddenly, as if understanding. "She's talking about your hair," he tells me. "The colour. Seaweed."

"Oh." I blink at her, at those big green eyes staring back at me, as she shoves a spoonful of some food into her mouth. "Um, thanks?"

Sophie laughs, then, a bright, gurgling kind of laughter.

"Being compared to grass that grows at the bottom of the sea," I say. "I don't know if she even means it in a bad way, or in a good way."

"A good way, definitely," Jamie assures me. "She loves _The Little Mermaid. _It's her favourite movie."

He's beaming up at me, now, his earlier uncertainty at my appearance long gone. I look at those big, brown eyes of his, and I think that he's a good kid. A sweet kid. The kind of guy who'll always have faith in you no matter what. The kind of kid who'll go out of his way to make others happy.

I suddenly realise that he looks like the same age as _her_.

Something clamps up in my stomach, then, cold and clammy and hard, and I don't feel very hungry anymore. I'm suddenly thankful that I only took a little of the spaghetti that Mrs Bennett's made, and I swallow down what I can, as much as I can, without feeling like I'm about to throw up.

I sit, quietly, until everyone else is done. Sophie doesn't say much to me, only giggles and cries "Seaweed!", and Jamie just scratches his head and finishes up his spaghetti before dashing up the stairs. I make Mrs Bennett teach me how to work my way around the kitchen, and what goes where, and all that other nonsense. She might be stuck with me, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be a burden on her.

And then I make her go up the stairs and leave me alone in the kitchen to clean up, that cold, clammy feeling still in my stomach.

* * *

><p>Later that night, I'm walking out of the bathroom when I see Jamie sticking something up onto the wall, below the light switches.<p>

"What're you doing, kid?" I ask him, as I step up next to him. Without my glasses, I have to squint a little, but I can make out a scrawl of words on masking tape: _Landing light. Hallway light. Staircase light_.

I turn to him, and he's grinning up at me sheepishly. I blink. "Were you – were you sticking this up for _me_?"

"Well, yeah," he admits. "I mean, I thought it'd be easier for you, to have this kind of labels first. So you wouldn't turn on the wrong light switch by accident."

It feels like there's a lump in my throat, and I can't swallow it down.

* * *

><p>The night is cold, so I've shut the window. But I'd probably have shut the window anyway. Like I mentioned – not really an outdoors kind of person.<p>

There's a sort of windowseat, so I bring over my battered old orange moose and settle down on the seat. It's cool – I mean, like, I can kind of feel the wind soaring in through the cracks, and it's a cooling feeling. It's kind of – kind of peaceful. I can see the night sky, the stars glittering and shining, a moon round and yellowish-white and really glowing, up there in that dark, velvety blue.

I think I could stay here forever, looking out at the snow-covered town of Burgess, the houses draped in soft white fluff, the moonlight spilling down and over the town, like it's illuminating everything that it shines over. It's magical. It's beautiful.

Suddenly there is frost spreading over the windowpane, and I shiver slightly – but just as I'm about to move away, swirling patterns start to form on the glass; spiralling and twisting and turning, beautiful, blue-white, intricate patterns that glimmer and glitter. I can't help but gasp. It's amazing. If it's even possible, it just makes the whole view outside the window look even more beautiful. Like a window into another world entirely.

It's like someone is drawing on the glass, beautiful, curving, swirling patterns of frost.

I wish she was here to see this too.

I hug my orange moose even more tightly, and I have to shut my eyes now because it's too painful and there's something hurting in my chest and I think it's my heart.

* * *

><p>I dream of snowflakes and warm laughter and a cold winter wind, and bright blue eyes and a flurry of winter and snow.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Heh. For those who made it all the way to the end...did you see those tiny little Jack Frost mentions in there? Heh. <strong>

**(Reviews, by the way, would be lovely. Wonderful. Yep. Okay, I don't really like begging for reviews, so...I think I'm gonna go now.) **


	2. the imaginary best friend

The next day, I'm up early. I have no idea what time it is, but I shower and dress and drag a brush through my hair and shove on my glasses, and I scribble a note for Mrs Bennett and leave it on the table.

Then I pull on my Converse sneakers and slip out the door.

I've always lived in a big city, full of noise and cars and traffic and tall, towering buildings, so Burgess is completely new to me. There's a couple of cars out on the road, but it's mostly quiet, and it's so _peaceful_. No rushing, no endless noise, no people shoving past you and glaring at you half the time.

It's different, all right. And maybe it's not so bad.

I'm not sure how long I've been walking, but by the time I'm somewhere near the Bennetts' house again, the sun is high in the sky and there are people up on the streets and in their cars, either staring at me outright or trying to stare and looking away quickly every time I lift my head. _Whatever_. Green hair's cool. Clashes a lot with other colours, though.

I stop to buy a hot chocolate in some little corner shop thing. It's cute, really cute, the kind of little place I'd hardly ever see back home. The guy behind the counter is maybe only one or two years older than me at the most, with blond hair like Sophie's and bright blue eyes.

"I've never seen you around before," he says, as he makes up the hot chocolate.

I frown. If this guy is trying to make small talk – well, I'm no good at small talk. Even the few baristas at the Starbucks back home who _did _attempt to make small talk as I bought my ice chocolate usually gave up after the second line.

"I'm just staying here for a while," I say, shortly.

"Yeah?" he grins at me. "Are you staying with relatives here, or something?"

"No." When he looks at me, curiously, I sigh, "Family friend."

He nods. "Cool. And nice hair, by the way. Very – " He pauses, as if trying to find a word.

"Green?" I suggest, dryly.

He laughs at that. "That works," he says. He holds up the hot chocolate. "I'm Michael."

I take the hot chocolate, and I nod. "Okay. Hi, Michael."

I'm about to back out of the place when he says, "Hey! Won't you tell me your name?"

I look at him blankly. "No," I say.

* * *

><p>When I get back to the house, hours later, Mrs Bennett is on her laptop with Sophie watching the television, her eyes wide. Jamie is nowhere to be seen.<p>

"There's some toast for you in the kitchen," she tells me, when she sees me walk in through the door. She smiles at me. "How was your walk?"

I shrug. "Pretty cool, I guess," I say. "It's nothing like back home."

I hurry into the kitchen before she can say, or ask, anything else. Like I said, small talk's not really my strong point. I find the toast and butter it and gulp it down. I don't like toast, not really. But Mrs Bennett means well. And it won't kill me to eat it.

It's some time later when I wander back out into the living room. "Is there anything I can do?" I ask her, and she looks at me, surprised. I'm guessing from what Mum's told her, she's not expecting me to offer help around the house or anything.

I mean, she probably knows I don't smoke or do drugs or anything like that, or she'd never let me into her house with her two young kids. But still.

Whatever. I'm a guest in this house. I'm not just going to be a burden, no matter what Mum thinks.

Mrs Bennett bites her lip. "There's the ironing to do," she admits. "And I have to finish up this report for work – "

"I can do it," I assure her. She looks at me, a bit uncertainly, but then she smiles and tells me where I can find the ironing board and the iron and where the clothes are.

I can't help it. I feel a rush of something that may just be affection for this soft-spoken single mother. Mum's never let me iron back home, apart from my own clothes, because she doesn't trust me to do it right and she's always afraid I'll burn something. But Mrs Bennett – she's just letting me iron her clothes and her kids' clothes. Just like that.

It's probably nothing much to her. But it means something to me.

When I'm done ironing, a couple of hours later, I sort through the clothes, splitting it into Jamie's pile, Sophie's pile, and Mrs Bennett's. The work is mechanical, repetitive – it's soothing, almost. There's hardly any need to think. It's comforting.

I place Mrs Bennett's clothes in her bedroom. It's a warm room, her things neatly placed and arranged, pictures of Jamie and Sophie everywhere, and on the dressing table, a picture of a tall blond man that has to be their dad.

I swallow and make my way down to bring up Sophie's clothes.

Sophie's room is small and bright and messy, toys and knick-knacks strewn all over the place. I try to figure out where to put her clothes as much as possible, and then I'm down the stairs to bring up Jamie's clothes.

Jamie's room is full of drawings and comic books and his own hand-made toys and even more store-bought toys that he keeps in surprisingly good condition. He's got books, too, all over the place – books about magical creatures, and yetis and faeries and elves and all that stuff.

Something catches in my throat. I used to believe in all that stuff, too. Magical creatures, a world that was more than just what we have, more than just science and buildings and cars and all that rot.

I linger in Jamie's room probably more than is necessary. His books are fascinating – or at least, the titles are. I'm not that much of a busybody to go and open up the books. Plus, I respect people's privacy. His drawings are pretty cool, too. There's loads of drawings of whom I guess must be him with his friends, and one with him on a sled flying through the air.

Huh. That last one's got a scrap of paper taped to the corner, like he decided to add it in only after the drawing was complete. It's a drawing of a skinny, white-haired boy in a blue sweatshirt and brown pants, holding a long staff. He looks like he's floating in the air, grinning wildly. I look over at Jamie's books, and back at the drawing, and I decide that this must be one of those mythical, magical creatures he loves reading about. Maybe some kind of snow or winter spirit, or something.

There's another lump in my throat, and my stomach feels hollow. I wonder what it'd be like, to be a kid again. To be happy, and free, and innocent. To believe that there's magic and all kinds of crazy, wonderful things in this world. To believe that there's always hope and wonder and that the world is a magical place.

_She_ used to draw, too. All the time. They were horrible. She was really bad at drawing. But she didn't care. She'd still draw them, anyway.

I have to take a deep breath, and I have to blink my eyes furiously because _I am not going to cry_.

I head out of that room and hurry down the stairs.

* * *

><p>I have to confess to Mrs Bennett that I can't cook, but she laughs and says that there's some stuff that I can heat up, or I can go out and buy some food, whatever suits me. She tells me there's a place that sells Indian takeaway nearby, and I latch onto that immediately.<p>

Asian food. Oh, God, some Asian food would be good right now.

She gives me directions and asks me if I'll like to bring Sophie there and back.

I look at Sophie, who is giggling as she draws all over the papers spread across the floor.

"It's okay," I tell Mrs Bennett, but I'm touched by the fact that she actually trusts me to bring Sophie out. But I know I won't. It's too dangerous – I don't know how to look after Sophie, or what crazy things she might do. "I'll just go out and buy something and come back."

"Take your time," Mrs Bennett calls after me, as I drag on my jacket and pull on my fingerless gloves. "And if you see Jamie at the park, call him back for lunch!"

I tell her "Okay", even though I'm not sure how exactly I'm supposed to get Jamie back for lunch. Guess I'll figure it out on the way.

I get three boxes of biryani rice, delicious, fragrant biryani rice that reminds me so much of home and of Dad and of _her_. She and Dad always loved biryani rice, more than Mum and I ever did.

I wonder, suddenly, if Mrs Bennett didn't cook lunch because she wanted me to go out and get the food. Mum must've told her how much Dad loves Indian food, and how we always ate it together as a family. And Mum also must've told her about my many failed attempts at cooking.

I don't know whether to feel grateful to or angry at Mrs Bennett. Grateful because she's trying to be nice to me, letting me get stuff that reminds me of home and family. Angry because it's really none of her business, and all she has to do is make sure I eat and sleep and stay healthy in general.

On my way back, I wander into the park. Sure enough, Jamie's there, with a massive girl wearing some kind of tutu-skirt, a pretty girl with a striped scarf, a tiny, geeky-looking boy, and a pair of dark-skinned twins.

He doesn't see me at first, because they're all flinging snowballs at each other, laughing and shrieking and running around. I stand there for a moment, watching them, and I know there must be a smile flickering across my face.

And then I frown.

I think I may be imagining it, but it looks like snowballs are also being flung at the kids from – from _nowhere_. They appear in the air, quite suddenly, being tossed into one kid's back and then the next, and across the ground, snowballs seem to form as there's the faintest sparkle or glitter of blue-white.

I shake my head. I have to be dreaming. Maybe I'm just exhausted from jetlag, or something. Even though I feel perfectly awake. There's no way snowballs can magically fling themselves through the air, or form on the ground.

Jamie catches sight of me, then, carrying two bags of food and with my green hair drifting about my face. He waves, excitedly. "Hey, Ember!"

Almost abruptly, the snowballs cease to be thrown, and I'm very aware of the eyes of six kids on me. I swallow.

"Hey, kid." I hold up the bags: "Your mum sent me to get lunch. She says you gotta go back and eat."

Jamie makes a face. The pretty girl says, "Hi, I'm Pippa."

The others seem to take this as their cue, because they introduce themselves as Monty, Claude, Caleb, and Cupcake. I can see Monty looking at my hair and my earrings and my ripped jeans and my shirt very nervously, like he's afraid I'll do something crazy that may potentially harm him.

"I'll be back after lunch," Jamie promises his friends, who are now about to go off their own separate ways. Then, as if struck by an idea, he turns to me: "Hey, you wanna have a snowball fight with us afterwards?"

I blink at him in surprise.

I can't help it. I smile, a brilliant smile, because Jamie doesn't even know me at all and here he is, offering up a snowball fight, actually asking if I want to spend time with him and his friends. And he's not lying – he's not faking it, or offering just because he feels he has to. I may not have good people skills, but I pick up on things like that really quickly. He _genuinely _wants me to mess around with them in the snow.

Maybe staying here won't be _that _bad.

"Maybe," I tell him.

He beams at me, then. And then he turns and waves at his friends one last time, and he yells, "Bye, Jack!"

I blink, as I trail after him on the pavement. "Jack?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, cheerfully. "Jack Frost."

"Jack Frost," I repeat, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice. If I'm not wrong, Jack Frost is supposed to be a winter spirit or something. Which basically means a guy who doesn't really exist.

I think of Jamie's drawing.

"Yeah!" Jamie says. "He's my best friend."

Staying with a kid who has an imaginary best friend. I don't know if that's really sad, or really cute.


	3. snowball fights

We eat the Indian takeaway in the kitchen, scooping out the fragrant yellow rice and dumping it into bowls. Sophie looks at it suspiciously, but after I convince her to take the first bite (really, I just attempted to shove it into her mouth), she just laughs and finishes up her meal.

Jamie doesn't shut up the whole meal, swallowing and talking and chewing all at the same time. He tells me all about Burgess, about his friends, like how Pippa is his closest friend and Monty is really nice even though he looks like he's really scared of everything and Claude and Caleb are really fun and Cupcake's great once you get past her 'back-off-and-get-away-from-me' attitude. He tells me that he's never really tried Indian food before, but it's great, and when my eyes flicker up to Mrs Bennett her gaze is locked onto her rice like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

I _knew _she sent me to get this food on purpose.

Jamie tries asking me questions, too, about my home and my family and my friends, and my face grows tight and soon I'm stabbing at the meat in the rice. My head is starting to hurt and I suddenly don't feel like eating much.

Mrs Bennett notices and clears her throat, fixing Jamie with a piercing gaze.

He looks from his mum to me and back again, and then he asks, "Hey, so you wanna go join us in our snowball fight after lunch?"

I bite my lip. I've promised to Skype Kevin and Peter and Lela and Alyssa and Sammi, but what with the time difference…

"Okay," I tell him.

* * *

><p>When we get to the park, some of his friends already sprawled in the snow, I decide to confess.<p>

"I've never actually been in a snowball fight before," I admit.

Jamie stares at me in shock. "You _haven't_?"

I shake my head. It's easier, than explaining how the place I used to live _never _snowed. Ever. At all.

She had always liked snow.

It feels like I'm being punched in the stomach, but I force myself to focus on the faces around me, on the sunlight pouring on me, the snow covering my feet.

"No way, man. That's just wrong." It's one of the twins – the one with this bright red hat on his hat. He grins at me, clearly deciding that my green hair isn't poison and won't kill him. "We'll teach you everything you need to know."

I raise my eyebrows, and I can't help it; I grin back at him. He reminds me, just a bit, of the kids back at my old school. "Yeah? And you're, what, the expert?"

"Nope, but we know someone who is," says his twin, and his eyes flicker to somewhere behind me. I turn around, but there's no one there, so I turn back to the twin. He has a slightly guilty look on his face now, but he smooths it over with a grin. "C'mon! Are we gonna get started, or what?"

* * *

><p>It's crazy.<p>

Half the time, I'm running away from snowballs instead of actually making and throwing them.

We've split into teams, me and Pippa and Cupcake, and Jamie and the rest of the boys. I think it's kind of unfair, seeing as how I have zero experience and we're one person less, but Pippa assures me that Monty's really not that good and Cupcake more than makes up for our disadvantages.

I don't really notice. All I'm aware of is dodging the snowballs that come flying out at me.

I've always been good at dodging stuff. It's probably come from the years of playing dodgeball in PE; I've always been particularly good at ducking and jumping away from all the green rubber balls that came flying over the net. This works its way into any game, really – I try to avoid catching whatever ball that's being passed around as much as possible.

Well, until we started playing captain's ball. Then they put me up on the chair to catch the ball, so that we could score a goal. But that's besides the point.

It's a good thing that Cupcake and Pippa are efficient at making snowballs. Once they realise I'm quick on my feet, they hide behind the fort and make snowballs and fling the occasional one, and they send me out to attack.

It kind of works, so, whatever.

It's strange, though, just how fast and how hard the snowballs the boys fling can be. There seem to be a lot, way too many for just four boys to make, and the way they're thrown through the air – sometimes they just seem to appear, sailing through the air towards me, with the kind of force you wouldn't expect a kid to have.

And the way they're thrown – hell, I never knew eleven-year-old boys could fling that fast and with such deadly accuracy.

But it's not for no reason that Pippa and Cupcake have put me out in front, or that I'm always the last man standing for every dodgeball game my class used to play back home. My aim's not that bad, and after a while Monty's down, and Claude, and then it's just Jamie and Caleb and Pippa and Cupcake and me.

"Jack, no fair!" Pippa yells out, as she's nearly hit by a snowball. Cupcake flings a couple of snowballs up into the air, as if aiming at something invisible and floating.

I frown. Jack? Like, Jamie's imaginary friend?

I pay for my moment's distraction. Jamie nails me with a snowball to the shoulder, and I fall onto my knees, widening my eyes dramatically.

"Oh, good Lord," I croak out. "I've been hit."

And then I fall over into the snow, and shut my eyes.

"Ember?" I can hear the thump of footsteps through the snow, a small body kneeling down next to me: "Are you – "

"HA!" I jump up and tackle Jamie, rolling him over into the snow until he's collapsed as well, laughing breathlessly, his hat lying somewhere behind him, his body racked with laughter.

"That was so cheating," he tells me, as I straighten up, grinning, brushing my hair out of my face.

"All fair's in love and war," I tell him. "That was definitely war."

He laughs again, and I think that maybe I'm not _that _bad with kids. After all, I seem to be doing pretty well with this bunch.

Jamie looks up into the air suddenly, and laughs again; then he turns to me and says, "Jack says you're really good for someone who's never been in a snowball fight before."

"Jack," I repeat. "Jack Frost."

"Yeah!" Jamie beams at me so brightly, I don't really know what to say.

"Um, thanks?"

His face falls. "You don't really believe that he's there, do you?"

I scratch the back of my head. Seeing his face fall is making my heart plummet, he looks so sad that I want to say yes, but I don't think he'd appreciate that. I don't believe in telling people what they want to hear, when it's not the truth. And especially not to a kid growing up. Hell, I'd probably be pissed off if someone treated me like a five-year-old when I was eleven.

"No," I admit. "I don't."

Jamie sighs, but then he tells me, "Okay. I didn't really expect you to, anyway. Teenagers don't really believe."

"Don't really believe?"

"Yeah," he says. "They don't believe."

I decide not to ask.

* * *

><p>That night, Sophie and Jamie go to bed early, because they have school tomorrow. As I dry the dishes, I wonder if I should ask Mrs Bennett about Jamie's imaginary friend, but I push away the thought immediately. I don't think she'd appreciate being asked about her own children and their possible imaginary friends. Besides, she's his <em>mum<em>. If she wants him to let his imagination run wild, so be it. An imaginary friend can be comforting.

"What will you do tomorrow?" Mrs Bennett asks me, as I come out of the kitchen.

I shrug. I'm not really sure what I want to do, exactly. I'm not enrolled in the high school – Mum and Dad had a huge argument about it; I didn't want to go, and besides, it's not like what they'll be teaching me in the high school here is what I'm going to actually be learning back home. So they finally came to the agreement that I would study on my own, what my friends are all learning in school, with the textbooks and readings that I've brought over, and I'll Skype my friends whenever I have a problem.

Which, you know, really means homeschooling on my own. And it sounds _way _better than heading to high school.

Dad thinks it'll teach me to be responsible for my own learning, and whatnot. Mum thinks I won't get any work done. _Whatever_. I actually do kind of like the subjects and stuff that I learn, contrary to what she thinks.

"Maybe I'll walk around in the morning," I tell her. "And then come back here and do my work after that. Or something."

"What subjects are you going to do?" she asks me. I want to frown and tell her it's none of her business, but I force the words to stay in. She means well. That's all. And besides, she's Mum's friend. Mum's probably told her all about how problematic I can be.

"History, I guess," I say. "And literature."

"Oh? What are you doing for literature?"

"Philip Larkin."

"The poet?"

"Yeah." _Is there another Philip Larkin? _I want to ask her, but I decide not to, because that's really rude and there may actually be another Philip Larkin I don't know about. "Goodnight, Mrs Bennett."

I'm up the stairs before she can say anything else, and all I can hear is her calling after me, "Goodnight."

* * *

><p>I curl up on the windowseat again once I've come in from the shower, looking out over Burgess again with my battered orange moose.<p>

I wonder if I should Skype Mum or Dad, or my friends, but I dismiss the thought immediately. I really don't want to face Mum right now, and Dad's probably busy. He always is. And it's too emotionally exhausting to talk to my friends. They'll ask me if I'm okay, if I'm coping, and all those kind of questions.

I don't want to answer those questions.

I think of messing around in the snow earlier today, with Jamie and his friends, and of course his imaginary friend Jack. It felt – it felt good to be able to just play, for people _not _to look at me pityingly and ask if I'm okay, to forget, just for a moment, why I'm here –

All of a sudden, guilt overwhelms me. I shouldn't be trying to forget. What on earth am I doing?

Something aches in me. A hollow, empty place in my chest, where I think my heart might have been. I don't know. All I know is that it hurts, it hurts so, _so _badly.

All of a sudden, there is a soft crackling sound – and then frost is spreading over the glass again, just like the night before. Beautiful, blue-white, shimmering frost, in spiralling patterns and designs, intricate and delicate.

My fingers reach out to touch the cool glass, my eyes widen as the patterns spin around. It's strange, but suddenly I feel a lot calmer; I feel just a bit more peaceful.

I fall asleep curled up on the windowseat with the orange moose, my head leaning slightly against the window where the frost curls and spirals and spreads into beautiful designs and images.

* * *

><p><strong>to frosty2002: hey! haha, guess I don't really know why I like girls with crazy-coloured hair. it's probably because i'd like to dye it a crazy colour myself, but you know, school. haha<strong>


	4. you're who?

It's hard to believe that a week has passed so quickly.

I have a routine, now. Every morning I get up, I wander around Burgess for a while, and then I return to the house and make myself breakfast. I'll do some work for a couple of hours – some days I'll do history, some days literature, some days economics, some days math. I'll get some chores done – I made Mrs Bennett write out a list of things I could do around the house – and then I'll read, either on the windowseat or outside in the yard or whatever.

And then, when Jamie and Sophie get back from school, I'll go and mess around with them. Some days I'll play with Jamie and his friends in the snow; some days I'll hang around with Sophie, making snow angels and getting her to teach me how to build a snowman.

Sophie's kind of annoying, at first; she's all giggly and blond and just stares at you with those great green eyes, and she's _so _clingy. But she really is kind of adorable, and she's sweet, when she wants to be. And she's not so bad. Not after a while.

Jamie, of course, is great.

One morning I'm woken up by him leaping into my room, laughing as I nearly fall down from the bed in shock and let out a strangled yelp.

"Come on!" he tells me. "It's a Saturday!"

"Geroff me," I mutter, trying to hide back under the blankets, but it's too late – I'm awake, sunlight pouring in through the window, Jamie laughing as he flops onto the bottom of the bed. "Stupid tiny Bennett – "

"Hey, Sophie's the tiny one," Jamie protests, but he's grinning at me. "C'mon! Let's go outside and play!"

"Sleep," I grumble.

"_Ember_," Jamie whines.

"Go find your Jack Frost friend," I tell him. Most of this week, I know, Jamie's been talking to the thin air around him, about bunnies and elves and yetis and sleighs and dreamsand and teeth and who-knows-what-else. I don't know. I try not to listen, but seeing Jamie's engrossed face, hearing his voice full of excitement – it's hard not to be drawn in.

"He's busy, he said he needs to go spread snow somewhere else," Jamie says. "Come _on_, Ember!"

I sigh, raise my head from the pillow. "Okay, okay," I sigh. "Coming."

"Yes!" Jamie punches his fist into the air, and I laugh, and I throw my moose at him.

"Get out!" I say. "I need to get ready!"

* * *

><p>We finally emerge from the house twenty minutes later, me jamming my hands into my fingerless gloves, and dragging Jamie's hat onto his head.<p>

"I'm _so _not awake for this," I grumble.

Jamie rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine. D'you want coffee or something?"

I make a horrified face: "No! I hate coffee!"

"Well, there's this chocolate shop place nearby," Jamie says.

The chocolate shop place Jamie is referring to turns out to be the same place I bought my hot chocolate the first morning. The blond guy is there, and he recognises me immediately, grinning up at me as he raises a paper cup.

"Hot chocolate, same as last time?" he asks me.

I shrug, awkwardly. "Yeah." I turn to Jamie, who's stumbled in after me: "You want one too, kid?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, and then he grins brightly at the blond guy: "Hi, Michael!"

Right. Michael. I knew his name was something like that.

"Hey, Jay," he says, and then he grins at me: "So these are the family friends you're staying with?"

I shrug, again. "Yeah."

"You guys know each other?" Jamie wants to know.

"She came in last week," Michael tells him, and he turns to look at me again: "So do I get to know your name yet?"

"No," I say, shortly. "Can I have the hot chocolate now?"

What the hell is this guy doing? All I want is to get my hot chocolate and then get out of here and back into the snow. He's grinning at me now, again, and I wonder if he does this to all the girls who walk in here. _Urgh_.

"I'll throw in a free cookie if I get your name," he says.

"I don't want a cookie."

"Well, Jamie can have it."

He's still looking at me, two hot chocolates in his hands now as he waits expectantly.

"Their cookies are really good," Jamie hisses up to me. "And they're really expensive. Why don't you want to tell him your name?"

I don't want to tell him my name because it's like admitting defeat, I want to tell him. I don't want to tell him my name because it means I've lost this round.

Instead, I look at Jamie's wide, brown eyes, and I sigh.

"Ember," I tell the blond guy behind the counter. "My name is Ember."

"Ember," he repeats, and he smiles. "That's a cool name."

"Whatever," I mutter. "Can I get our stuff now?"

He grins at me, passes me the hot chocolate and a small brown bag with a cookie inside. Just as we're about to walk out, he yells out, "See you around, Ember!"

I shut the door behind me without a second glance.

* * *

><p>It's nearly a week later when Mrs Bennett tells me she has to leave urgently on a business trip, just for two or three days, and would I mind looking after Jamie and Sophie for a while on my own?<p>

I stare at her in complete disbelief, because I'm still trying to process her words.

Mrs Bennett wants to leave me. In her house. In _charge _of her house. And she wants me to take care of her two young kids for her.

I don't know whether I should be scared and horrified or feel honoured that she's trusting me with this.

"You won't have to do much," she assures me. "Just make breakfast, get ready their meals – " She's taught me a bit about cooking " – and make sure they get their schoolwork done. There's the bus stop at the end of the street, they'll get to school and back again fine."

I want to tell her _sure, I'll do it, no problem_! I want to tell her _you can't do this to me!_

Instead, I say, "Do you really trust me with this?"

She smiles at me, gently, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Of course I trust you," she tells me. "I've seen the way you look after them whenever you're left alone with them. You'll be fine."

So on Sunday night she says good bye to us and she gets into a cab to take her to the airport.

* * *

><p>I'm afraid, at first, but it turns out all right. I let Sophie watch a bit of TV and Jamie talks to his imaginary friend Jack Frost, and they go to bed on time. On Monday morning, I find the cereal and milk and stuff and get breakfast ready, and when they get back, I mess around with them for a while in the snow, just like how I've always done, and I make sure Jamie gets his homework done, and I make Sophie stop watching TV after an hour.<p>

It's Monday night when I realise there's no more milk, because we finished the carton this morning, and Sophie's shrieking and refusing to go to sleep unless she has milk.

I get her to quiet down, after a while, but she still refuses to go to sleep.

It's getting dark, but it's not like I have much of a choice. I pull on my jacket, lace up my sneakers.

"You can't be going out at this kind of time!" Jamie looks up at me, scandalised, as I pass through the kitchen. He's supposed to be doing his homework, but considering how he was at question seven an hour ago and he's only halfway through question eight now, I guess he's been talking to his imaginary friend Jack Frost.

"Why?" I ask him. "It's only eight something."

"It's getting dark!" he says.

I glance out the window. Sure, it's dark, but it's not _that _dark. Not yet.

"Ah, I'll be fine," I say. "Sophie won't sleep without milk. And the store's not that far away."

"Ember – "

"I'll be fine," I tell him. "Really."

"At least let me go with you – "

"And leave Sophie alone in the house?" I interrupt, but my heart is warm, because _damn _this kid is sweet. "I'll be all right. How about this – I'll call you if I'm not back in half an hour, okay?"

He bites his lip and he worries but finally, he agrees.

So I head out. I head out into the darkness, I find my way to the grocery store, I buy two cartons of milk just in case it runs out again, and I stuff them into a bag and I make my way home.

_Home_.

I stop in the middle of pavement.

Home. The Bennetts' house isn't home, not exactly. But it feels like a home, for sure. I start walking again, one foot in front of the other, and I think of Mrs Bennett and I think of Jamie and I think of Sophie.

I think of Jamie, and his imaginary friend Jack Frost, and there's a painful ache in my chest because I want to believe, too. I want to believe so, _so _badly that there is magic in this world, and goodness and light and wonder –

That's when there's the loud screech.

I look up, just once, to see a pair of bright yellow lights heading my way –

And all I can think of is _oh my god I'm on the road when did I get on the road fuck I'm going to die – _

Because for sure, it's coming nearer and nearer and I take a shaky step back, first one and then the other but still it's coming my way, it's spinning and _oh my god _–

Then suddenly there's a pair of arms around me and I'm hurled through the air and I crash into the bushes on the other side of the road, and it's difficult to breathe because _what the hell just happened_?

"Are you okay?" a voice asks, worriedly.

I turn my head, slightly, and then I have a problem trying to take a breath because there is a boy whose face is inches from my own, a boy with snowy white hair and bright blue eyes in a pale white face.

"Who the fuck are you?" I manage to stammer, and I know I sound ungrateful and terrible when this guy has just saved my life but _what the fuck just happened – _

"Jack," he tells me, and I notice one of his hands is clenched around a long wooden staff, and he's wearing a blue hoodie with a spiralling design of frost that looks so very familiar, and I look up and meet his wide blue eyes: "Jack Frost."


End file.
